KKM 'The Unbearable Sweetness of Being'
by tigersilver
Summary: Smuff. Food smuff. Bon appetite!


KKM 'The Unbearable Sweetness of Being'

"Yuuri."

"Hmmm?"

"Are you ready yet? Do you need help?"

"Um," a neatly combed black head nodded. "I never can tie these things, Wolf-chan. Am I an idiot?"

Chuckling softly, the splendidly attired demon rose gracefully from his lounging pose on their recently straightened coverlet and came up to the Maou, wavering uncertainly before the bedroom's beveled mirror.

"No…"

He paused, examining the damage, and then brought agile fingers to the ready, undoing the gruesome excuse for a proper knot Yuuri had made in his black silk cravat and carefully retying it properly.

"Not always." His lips curled into a fond smile that took the sting out the words.

He was punished, though. A stern-faced Maou grabbed at the young Mazoku's perfectly suited shoulders and swung him into the wall, his own longish, untied black hair flying into disarray with the sudden motion. A black-garbed leg was shoved between the blonde's thighs and Shibuya Wolfram was kissed ruthlessly and relentlessly for his impertinence, strong fingers sliding ruthlessly through his mane to disrupt its careful coiffing, deftly controlling him when he struggled for that brief moment before desire clawed its way up his heaving chest. It took a determined Yuuri one more moment only to strip the blue satin coat entirely from Wolf's back; to bite off the fashionable pearl buttons with strong white teeth; to discard the cream silk sash to the floor. Not that Wolfram didn't help matters along: matte black and shiny blue trousers were hastily undone amidst the sounds of mutual groaning and ebony thongs were hurriedly shimmied down sweat-damp hips.

One quick fumble of saliva-laden fingers and Wolfram was arched against the tapestried wall, panting harshly, and frantically trying to wrap a long pale leg around Yuuri's waist in reaction.

They were hampered by the fabric sagging around the Mazoku's knees, but that didn't stop them. Neither did the lateness of the hour or the fact that dinner was waiting. There were guests; there were conventions; there were polite rules to follow, but none of that amounted to a hill of beans. They were hungry only for each other, these two – starving and crazed with desire.

One thrust…and two…and the lovers were in frantic motion, surging against one another, grasping with slick fingers and damp palms, gasping open-mouthed across open mouths, feasting on lips and tongues and the satin smoothness of inner cheeks and the hollowed out crevices under tongues and on the roofs of mouths. Sated for a half-breath, Yuuri groaned and nibbled at throat and chin and brow, sucked lovingly on pale, fragrant strands of wheaten silk and the tiny mounds of flesh that blushed so coyly at the base of his lover's ears. Wolfram, deprived, sunk desperate fingers into Yuuri's broad shoulders and captured the lips that pressed repeatedly against his face and neck, collarbone and hairline when he could, raggedly moaning his new husband's name over and over in a tormented whine.

It was sweet, like a buffet of the richest of desserts after years and years of strictly meat-and-potatoes-only. Heady, as vintage champagne lavished over mounds of hothouse ripened strawberries, lollopped with lashings of whipping cream and sprinklings of ground cardamom. Intoxicating, spell-binding, enchanting–bittersweet dark chocolate and Chantilly custard; rich _ganache_ stuffed between the thinnest, butteriest layers of puffed French pastry in existence, spilling Chambord-soaked sponge cake and ripe berries and brandied cherries everywhere.

Like dessert, though, it never fully satisfied, but instead left endless cravings for _more_ and _harder_ in its confectionary sugar-dusted wake. Yuuri sank his tongue into the spearminty hollow where Wolfram's worked furiously to meet him and ate and ate, devouring, his hips mirroring the plundering motions with quick and easy jerks and jabs–the practiced fever of the determined glutton, who knew no other sustenance than his lover's willing flesh.

Fused, they rocked and slammed into carpet over cold, hard stone alternately, plunging deep into the hidden recesses of each other, until Yuuri's wide palm found Wolfram's privates, coated and glistening with precum like a clear candy-coating on deceptively hardened milk-white marzipan. Lips locked together as if there'd be no tomorrow--no meals after this one, _not ever_--and Yuuri's fingers milked Wolfram dry with a muffled scream and a wheeze, sending the blonde shuddering into paroxysms of mingled exhaustion and delight.

One thrust…two, and Yuuri filled his lover with all the very best of his essence, frothed up and heated to scalding by two young bodies still whipping and colliding together with steely mechanical speed. It gushed and spewed, mixed Devonshire cream and melted white chocolate, and Wolfram moaned thankfully as his appetite was finally satisfied and licked dry lips as he gratefully sipped the humid air between them. Yuuri slumped against his lovely new husband, a soufflé fallen in the center, and thanked the gods and Shinou both he'd been granted heaven without dying first.

The post-coital pillow mints were consumed in the baths, along with nips of damp skin and playful licks of raspberry nipples and ripe, swollen lips. Eventually, a polite message was sent down to the people patiently awaiting the Maou and his brand-new Consort, asking them to please not wait a moment longer on dinner, and Yuuri and Wolfram languidly moved their private picnic to the bounteous bed.

"Newlyweds!" sighed the various gathered friends and relatives, smiling and blushing, and happily commenced on the dessert course, for they hadn't waited dinner once this particular week.


End file.
